


A Series of Threads

by basketcasewrites



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But each chapter focuses on a different a:iw character, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon Divergence - Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, It gets less sad, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, The chapters all somehow link to each other, but i no longer will be, update: i planned to continue adding to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-02 13:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/basketcasewrites
Summary: There is Thanos and the havoc he wreaks.There are the heroes who stand against him.There are their lives after war and the separate stories never quite told.





	1. One — Loki

Fire dances over everything in the ship. The smell of heated metal and burning flesh fills his lungs, singes his nostrils as he breathes in.  
He takes a long look around the remnants of the stolen ship and wonders how it was all destroyed so thoroughly, so quickly. 

Thor kneels, face red beneath the blood and the dirt, and grunts animalistically; fights against the metal in which he is bound. 

Loki steps forward from the shadows. Thanos cuts a menacing figure, looms over the others in the room without trying. He stares at Loki as he walks toward him and, something akin to cold fear gripping at him, Loki worries that Thanos knows him too well by now.

He speaks. Distracts Thanos with the fluidity of speech and redirection he has spent years mastering. Hands kept skillfully out of sight, he conjures a slim dagger. Holds it firm, runs his fingers over the intricate curves and the knobs. 

Clarity of his voice and mind not affected by the dire situation they have found themselves in, Loki promises Thanos his allegiance— his undying fidelity. He yells at the end, rushes forward to thrust the dagger into Thanos' throat.

"Undying," Thanos repeats, almost sarcastically, his deep voice echoing in the cavernous ruins of the stolen spaceship. He moves with purpose, lifts his hand to Loki and circles his fingers around his slender neck. "You should pick your words more carefully."

Fire rises around them— flickers in Thor's eyes as he strains in his restraints and stares, flickers and darkens the pale purple of Thanos' skin. Mouth drawn into a solid line, he tightens his hand around Loki's neck. The young god struggles— gasps for breath as the cold metal burns into his skin, as he is lifted and the ground disappears from beneath his feet. 

The dagger drops from his hand, its clatter drowned out by the surrounding chaos. 

His eyes skim wildly over the room as he takes in deep breath after deep breath, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen.  
Vision blurring, Loki settles his gaze on Thor— his brother; bleeding and broken and filled with rage.

His smile is a fleeting curve of his lips, and he hopes Thor catches it and takes the action for what it means— everything will work itself out in the end. Somehow, everything will be okay. If Luck and Good Fortune are ladies, they have favoured Loki for centuries. 

The pressure on his neck is too much. Worse still, the pressure building in his chest. Then the pressure is gone. He meets the ground with a sharp thud, body snapping violently against the rubble, the ruins of their former safe haven.

Twisted metal and broken stone digs into his back. He stares, unseeing, at the warped ceiling. He thinks he hears a scream tearing through the ship, ripping apart everything surrounding him.

*

Loki knew what to expect when he fell from the Bifrost the second time, pushed through by Hela's swift, devilish hands— a journey which seemed to have no ending, stars, burning and dying, and entire universes passing him by. 

Loki knew what to expect, he had experienced it before, when he was younger and pushed too close to the edge by a brother he had only dreams of surpassing. He had expected a desolate planet in an equally as desolate realm, destroyed by war or nature. 

He opened his eyes to garbage, rubble, gathered in piles and touching to the sky, surrounded him. He opened his eyes to the eclecticism of Sakaar.

It is soft where he expects nothing but hardened ground. Gentle where he expects burning cement to be searing his skin and sharp edges to be stabbing into the hollow of his back. 

Soft sunlight settles on his face, wakes Loki from his sleep. Mouth dry and tongue heavy, he has either been drugged or been asleep for weeks. A combination of both, possibly.

"You're awake, this really is a lovely surprise." The familiar lilting voice greets Loki, the Grandmaster floating into the room without prompt or permission.

He drags himself from hazy sleep into unsteady consciousness. 

"What am I doing here?" Loki asks. He fingers the gold-stitched sheet, thinks that he would prefer to have this conversation in a moment when he was more aware of his actions and train of thought. 

"You don't sound like you missed me." 

"What am I doing here, Grandmaster?" He stands, shaky with his bare feet against cold floors. He let's the older man's statement pass, secure in the knowledge that he is possibly the only person alive who is allowed to do that to the Grandmaster. 

"Brains and beauty," the Grandmaster says, smiling brightly, as he hovers near Loki, "I really.. uh.. am astounded by you. The ships all have trackers on them, did you know that?" 

"I did know," Loki says. He sways on his feet, falls back to sit on the luxurious bed. He missed the softness of everything in Sakaar, misses the softness of his own bed back on the destroyed Asgard. 

The Grandmaster taps Loki on  the shoulder, the end of a slender cane pressing lightly against his shoulder. "Beauty and brains," he says with a wide grin, in that way of his, as if he is the only person who needs to fully understand what he says and means. 

A serving maid brings in a glass of water, directing the tray to Loki and waiting for him to pick it up. The ice cold water cuts through the dryness in his mouth, slivers down his throat and settles in his empty stomach. Almost immediately the haziness disappears, like a thick gathering of clouds parting to reveal a sliver of sun. Only that the sun is a constant throbbing, a pain which aches his entire body. 

"He stands slowly," the Grandmaster narrates as Loki stands, spreading his arms wide on either side of his. 

Loki, slipping from the bed, throws a cutting glare the older man's way. He has been dressed in the soft golds which finds a home in Sakaar and does not hesitate to change into more familiar clothes, the green of his uniform outfit appears with a gesture and a snap of his fingers. 

"I remember when you used to do that little trick. Only you were taking off all your clothes. Don't you remember, Topaz? Wasn't it great?" Grandmaster muses, turning to the woman beside him. 

"No. He's too thin. Slimy. Greasy—" 

"Are you going somewhere with this?" 

"No."

Loki straightened up, stretches as the two argue. He knows a bit about injuries, the ones he has now must have been healing for days. The time passage on Sakaar tends to set him off. 

If he had survived Thanos without assistance, had woken to that ship drifting aimlessly in the cosmos, Loki knows he would have still found his way to Sakaar and the Grandmaster.  
For all that Loki does not trust easily, he trusts this man who took him in and gave him a home. Kept Loki beside him when he could easily have cast Loki aside, thrown him into the ring as a another gladiator. He imagines the sex helped the Grandmaster's decision. 

"Grandmaster—" Loki begins. 

Holding up a finger, the Grandmaster interrupts Loki with a muttering of indistinguishable sounds. "Breakfast first. We can talk then."

Loki is not given a chance to argue. He follows behind the Grandmaster with barely a contemptuous sigh. 

 

They settle in a large dining hall, Grandmaster at the head of the table and Loki on his right. 

It isn't until he smells the food that he realizes how hungry he is. When he asks how long it has been since he has eaten, Loki is told of a fluid nutrient that has been fed to him while he has been asleep. When he asks how long he has been asleep, Loki is not too surprised when he is told it has been just over a week. 

Thanos pushed to the side of his mind for the moment, Loki tucks into the meal. Does not abandon his careful graces but eats until he is stuffed. 

*

Loki smelled like smoke when the Grandmaster found him. Not the delicious smoke from a raging bonfire, tendrils enticingly clinging to bodies, but the kind of fire which carried with it a strong scent of death. 

The ends of his hair had been singed. The Grandmaster pained to have even those few inches of raven hair snipped and gave careful instructions for as much of the hair to be saved as was possible. 

Loki smells like the perfumes and lotions that have been specifically chosen and left for him. Grandmaster breathes in the sweet vanilla, Loki standing close enough beside him that he does not have to strain, looking over Sakaar from one of the many walls of windows. 

"They're all here?" Loki asks, voice breathlessly disbelieving, his hand pressed against the glass. "How many survived?" 

Grandmaster hadn't been keen on taking in any of the Asgardians as   refugees. Their lives and deaths meant nothing to him, and they were too weakly to be good tributes for his arena.  
But he had gazed upon Loki, pale blue and hardly breathing, seeming so broken and so small amongst all that utter destruction. Even silent, Loki had managed to sway his decision. He doubted Loki would appreciate his people being deserted and, seeing the small smile playing on his lips now, the Emperor is glad he set up the camp. 

For a whore. Topaz had said, disapproval evident in her words and her trademark frown. 

But Loki wasn't a whore— he isn't— and hearing the words was enough to incur a semblance of the Grandmaster's wrath. Loki was lost when he landed on Sakaar, in need of a home and a warm bed. A home and bed the Grandmaster had been too ready to offer. 

"Not all of them," he says, hand resting at the small of Loki's back. "About two hundred. Maybe less, maybe more." 

"Valkyrie..." Loki begins, leaves his question hanging incomplete in the air between them. 

Unsure how to break the news to him, Grandmaster just shakes his head slightly. She was not among the refugees, that was enough for him to assume she was dead. 

"She was the last of them." For his own benefit or not, Loki says it. He stares at the Asgardians milling and beginning to mix with the locals. 

He sighs then, an upheaval of breath which seems to be dragged from the very depths of him. His eyes cloud over, darken as they stare blindly into the distance— his face twists, as if the memory to which his mind has wandered has brought with it an immense pain.  
The young God is something of a mystery to the Grandmaster. One he wants to spend millenia decoding.

Loki turns sharply on his heel, cape flashing green and yellow with the sharp movement. Hair flying and falling elegantly to his shoulders. 

"I need your help." Loki stands before the older man, stretched to his full height. Meeting the Grandmaster's eyes with the ferocity of his gaze, he leaves no room for argument. "Please," he ends softly. And, for that simple utterance alone, so drenched in desperation and pleading, the Grandmaster would do anything Loki asks of him, would give up absolutely everything. 

*

He appears in a lightning storm, from the heavens and into the fray. The chaos of battle surrounds Thor— clanking metal, torn battle cries, determined yells; the sounds are excitingly familiar. 

Thor charges into battle, falling in with the Avengers as if it has not been years since he disappeared. As if he had fought beside them all that very morning. 

Thanos descends upon the battlefield, makes his entrance by stepping through a rippling black portal.

Cap, his teeth gritted solidly, charges forward without hesitation. Thor swears under his breath and wonders how fast he can disentangle himself from the series of advancing fights.

Steve is cast aside, Thor swallowed by a dozen more of the mangled alien creatures set loose upon the city. 

The axe is a brilliant example of weaponry, but it is not Mjolnir. He swings wildly, smiling as he destroys. He takes down dozens of the creatures, the anger and bitterness building in him from these last few days leaving him hungry for war and thirsty for blood. 

 

"Is this the purple raisin thing you were telling me about?" Thor hears from somewhere above them, finally free and wiping blood from his cheek. 

He recognizes the voice and he groans, exhausted and now frustrated. This is the last thing any of them need in the heat of battle— to be greeted by a pair of snakes. 

"That isn't... exactly what I said, Grandmaster," Loki says, his smile twisted halfway between pleading and apologetic as he looks between the Grandmaster and Thanos. 

The sound of viscous battle drowned out the sound of their arrival, alerting Thor too late to their presence. None of the other's seemed to have noticed, not until right in that moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow, halting beside Thor. She kicks out at one of the creatures, killing it easily before she asks, "What's your brother doing here?" 

Tony repeats the question, in words not as kind, but to the same effect. 

Thor replies the same to them both— a heavy shrug and a hearty, anxious laugh. He doesn't know. He is unsettled.

He has seen his brother die so many times— watched as the light left his eyes, as the colour left his skin, as he faded away— that, when Loki was killed aboard the ship, Thor had not entirely believed it. A distant, buried part of him held on to the knowledge that Loki had faked his death before, he could easily do it again. 

He clung to the small smile Loki had given him as meaning Loki had a plan; the God of mischief, he always had a plan— he always had a million different plans. 

His surprised laugh cuts through the violence. Thor swings his axe in a large arc, triumphant. Loki is alive— his brother is alive; Thor has lost so much in such a short amount of time, this is enough for him. 

"Is this your last line of defense?" Thanos asks, booming voice not straining to be heard. "This golden man and a fallen prince?" 

The Grandmaster zooms down to Thanos. Loki stands a way behind him— regal, his head held high and haughty, but Thor can see Loki is shielding himself and Thor cannot help but chuckle. His brother will never change. 

"Okay, wow, a breath mint wouldn't hurt you," the Grandmaster notes lightly, a look of disgust twisting his features. He holds out a hand to the woman beside him. "Melting stick." His command is sharp. 

Thanos' brow is furrowed, lips pursed into a wrinkled frown. He looks affronted, offended, that somebody would even attempt to challenge him. 

Loki's hands twitch. Thor hopes he does not do anything stupid; anything more stupid. 

Thanos focuses his attention on Vision, on the Infinity stone held firmly in his forehead. Ignoring the Grandmaster and Loki as if they were no more than a pair of troublesome insects. 

Big mistake, Thor thinks. The Grandmaster is swift from years of practice, from years of doling out punishment and torture. He hovers before Thanos, presses the rounded end of the stick against his chest. 

It works faster than Thor remembers— he absently wonders whether it has different settings, dismisses the thought immediately in order to focus his sole attention on what transpires before him. 

Smoke rises from Thanos' chest. The wind breezes past and carries with it the strong smell of burning flesh. Thanos roars angrily, it is terrifying in how animalistic it sounds, and makes to tear away. 

Thanos does not move; restrained by chains Loki has managed to wrap around him while distracted by the Grandmaster, he cannot. 

The chains fall to the floor with a clank muffled by the littered forest floor, the gauntlet, missing just one more stone, clatters to the floor with it. This, and a sickly purple puddle, is all that remains of the Destroyer of Worlds.


	2. Two — Peter

Death in war is inevitable. Infinitely tied together— a pair of lovers entwined, forced to remain beside each other for all eternity.

He had not seen Thanos destroyed, had only heard about it hours afterwards in a jumbled telling from Rocket who, with the rest of the Guardians, had taken up residence in the tower. Tony had added his piece, and so had Natasha.

The story grew more fantastical each time it was told— even Natasha exaggerated the story, just a bit, before she told Peter the truth.

He wishes he could have witnessed Thanos' end with his own eyes. He would have given anything to have been on earth at the time, instead of on a distant planet, the name of which he cannot quite remember— Tivoli, Peter thinks, and knows he is wrong but doesn't care because he is sure it starts with a 'T' and, if not, is sure it must be something similar.

The tower is quiet. The solemn silence unnerves Peter. In all his time here he has not experienced the hush such as the one that settles around them all now.

He stands in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, his scuffed sneakers rubbing against each other, squeaking. Soft brown curls fall into his eyes and dance around his jaw— he needs a haircut, the long hair tickling his chin and his nose tell him this much.

Tony forbade Peter from leaving the tower and, for once, Peter— burnt and broken and with lungs suffering from the time spent in space— decided to listen to him.

Aesthetically speaking, the new tower does not differ much from the old one, yet it _feels_ different. Peter isn't overly fond of any of it.

"You gonna say something, kid, or you just gonna stand there?" Quill— the other Peter, Peter notes absently— says, his voice gruff. Painfully raw.

He is bitter, not the man Peter had met barely days ago. War changes people, Peter guesses. Death.   
Losing someone he must have loved dearly.

Peter shakes his head. He stumbles over his words, says, "No— no, Mr Quill— Star Lord— Sir?" They hadn't interacted much during the mission, Thanos being playing primarily on their minds.

The man's laugh is dry. Elbows braced on his knees, he tears his eyes away from the square-inch of floor he has intensely stared at for the last few hours. Eyes shot through with throbbing red, he raises the slim brown bottle in a sad attempt at a toast. "Peter's fine. Quill. Star Lord. Anything. Just drop the _mister_."

"I'm sorry," Peter says, carefully inching his way into the large living room and taking a seat across from Quill, "About Gamora, I mean."

"Yeah, well, sorry's not gonna bring her back." Quill shrugs heavily, takes another sip of the beer.

Peter wonders if he knows he could be setting a bad example. After all, Peter _is_ young and impressionable, possibly easily influenced.  
He does not say any of this. Instead he draws his crossed legs to his chest and watches— Pepper won't appreciate Peter's shoes on the sofa; Tony would appreciate Peter's ability to actually stay silent.

He can almost hear Tony, his light sarcasm echoing in these foreign halls.

Tony isn't here. He and the other Avengers— they say the Avengers don't exist anymore, but Peter refuses to think of them in any other terms— have a duty, Tony had said to Peter, to keep the universe safe, and now, to clean up after the mess made by Thanos. His hand warm on Peter's shoulder, a tender moment as delicate and rare as a crystal dove, Tony said, "Please just listen to me and stay behind for this. Stay behind where you'll be safe."

Biting down the urge to argue, Peter agreed.

So he sits, taste of the carrot cake he found in the stocked fridge on the penthouse level on his tongue, legs akimbo, watching a man as he falls apart. The two Peter's; the only two to witness Thanos to currently haunt these tower walls.

The Avengers have been gone for days, he has not been allowed to talk to Aunt May or to text Ned or Michelle. He is hurt and alone and in need of a friend.

"My Aunt May would take you out for Thai," Peter blurts.

"What?" Quill asks numbly.

"She'd get really excited that you were a Peter, even though Peter is one of the most common names in the world, and she'd take us all out for dinner," Peter rambles, "My friends Ned and Michelle would probably come, too."

"Your aunt sounds nice."

"She is."

Then Peter has nothing to say, but it's okay. Because even in this strange building, with one Peter alone and too young to have seen such destruction, and one Peter sallow and swollen from too much crying, the quiet is not uncomfortable.

*

The memorial is held on a Saturday morning.

An opal-painted sky is scattered with clouds like cotton candy, pleasant sun touches all but the dusty and darkened corners of the room, musical chirps fill the air. Quill tugs on the knot of his black tie, choking him like a noose around his neck— he frowns at his reflection, the tie sitting uncomfortably against the curve of his throat.

He wants to punch a hole through the crystalline mirror, feel the shards of glass cut into his skin so that something _might_ _just_ hurt more than the aching in his head and his heart.

He wants to swear at the clear skies and blast every single singing bird.

The purity of the world outside does nothing to match the storm inside him. At this, Quill feels both offended and filled with bitter ire, as if the world at large is mocking him; as if the world at large takes pleasure in his misery. The world should be mourning with him— he should not be the only one.

A soft knock on the door draws his attention. He drags his eyes away from his reflection.

"I am Groot," Groot says, voice soft as if he is unsure of what to say.

Behind Groot, his reluctance to leave his side only growing worse since their time on earth, stands Rocket. It is almost unnatural for Quill to see him in this place— something about him doesn't quite fit, doesn't belong with the sleek interior and elegant design. If he is honest, this is no big surprise. None of them seem to fit into this world. Least of all Quill himself.

"They're waiting for us," Rocket says, quiet.

They are all quiet. Lost in their own worlds and their own grief.

Gamora was important to them all, was _loved_ by them all— sometimes he is so absorbed in the loss which envelops him, Quill forgets this.

He passes through the halls of the tower, blindly following Groot and Rocket.

Quill knows not many more days will pass before they leave. Rocket will want to move on, Drax will too. And him? He doesn't know what he wants. He just wants to leave. He just wants to be with Gamora.

It seems almost blasphemous holding a memorial for her in a place she never visited. But the Avengers— and he loves how the name sounds exactly like a group of dangerous superheroes are going to fuck shit up, and if things were different he would be spending moments just talking to each of them— were insistent.

Groot had tugged on his sleeve, silently, Rocket voicing what Groot was too sad to even whisper. "He wants to stay for the memorial."

So they stayed.

Maybe Gamora wouldn't have wanted the service— her portrait one of many other portraits of those lost in the battle, strangers paying their respects, a heartfelt speech that is oddly clipped. But the food is good. And the kid, Peter, sticks to his side, even manages to hold an entire conversation without Quill having to utter a single word.

 

Raucous laughter erupts from the far end of the table— Rocket and Thor the cause of it. Fighting and almost dying beside each other seems to have made them the best of friends. Even if Thor still can't get Rocket's name right.

Quill sniffs at the large beer he knows he'll regret by tomorrow morning. Only the finest from Wakanda, the young king, T'Challa, had assured Quill when he asked about the quality for a second time. Beyond its dark purple colouring it holds no resemblance to the beer he is used to— silky smooth, it caresses and it burns his raw throat as he swallows down a mouthful.

"—You did what?" Quill hears a surprised voice over the general noise, raises his head to see Banner staring wide-eyed at Thor. He glares up at Thor and, even from his distant seat, Quill can see the combination of worry and fury creasing his face.

"It was a, uh, a small star." Thor waves him away, his smile unwavering. Beer clasped in his one hand, he rests his other on Banner's shoulder— Quill recognizes the familiar tenderness of the gesture and he grimaces; it stings to see that easy exchange of intimacy— meets his gaze and says, "Don't worry about it." Quill stops listening after that.

Peter and Shuri sit across from him. Teenagers, Quill thinks and takes a sip of the soda, as they argue over something on Shuri's cellphone, jostling for the sleek device.

"Shuri, you—" Peter's cry interrupts his sentence, the jab of an elbow catching him in his unprotected side.

"Some kind of superhero you are," she says with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"I helped save the world once."

"I saw the footage." Shuri waves her phone between them, an exclamation to her sentence. "It wasn't that impressive, spider boy."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter sinks low into the chair. He grumbles under his breath, words caught in the chaos but just loud enough for Shuri to hear. To laugh. To punch Peter lightly on the shoulder.

Quill glances away, down the length of the long table. There's so many of them in one room at one time. They all fit comfortably around the table and in the spacious hall. Everything in Wakanda is perfect, and the air in the room is clear and not stuffy with thick exhaled breaths.

Tall dark walls rise around them. If Quill walked outside the palace a view of a bustling city meeting a lush forest would greet him. He wishes Gamora could have seen this.

"You're irritating me," Peter says, wiggling to sit upright in the chair, "This sad alien man is my new best friend now." Peter waves his arm in front of him, gesturing ambiguously toward Quill.

"I'm not an alien," Quill adds to the conversation.

"Outer space," Peter says, raising a hand at an angle toward the ceiling and making a low _vroosh_ sound followed by a muffled imitation of a explosion. "Alien."

Confused, Quill asks, "What?"

"What?"

"What was that?"

"It was a spaceship... taking off..." Peter clumsily explains.

"And exploding?"

"It was for dramatic effect." Peter shrugs. He picks at the leftovers on his plate, shrugs before lifting his eyes to Quill again. "You're sure you're not an alien? Like, not even two percent alien?"

Shaking his head, Quill offers a quiet apology.

"I'm pretty sure there's a law that says if you spend forty years in space and are raised by a weird alien dude then you're an alien."

"I'm not forty—" Quill argues, brow creasing in mock offense. He is grateful for Peter's chuckle; lately he has managed not much more than a piteous laugh from the others. "But maybe I am _technically_ an alien."

Peter pumps his fist in excitement. His grin wide and splitting his face in two. "I knew it," he hisses.

"Why didn't you go with the Avengers when they went to fix shit?" Quill asks, curious. He remembers how the boy had thrown himself into battle, the thirst with which he followed the fighting. Even wrought with pain and lost in depthless grief, Quill knew it wasn't by choice that Peter had stayed behind.

"Mr Stark said I was too young. _Am_ too young." Peter raised his shoulders in a tight shrug.

"Groot went."

" _You're not a tree,_ _Peter—_ _"_ Peter says, rolling his eyes and imitating Tony. " _You won't grow back, Peter_."

Quill's laugh is dry, but it is a laugh. "You know when I was your age— How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Yeah, when I was your age I'd already stolen my first ship and accepted my third bounty."

"Really?"

"Probably," Quill says with a heavy shrug. "Sounds like something I'd have done."

*

"You're where!?" Ned's voice is tinny through the speaker of the phone. Peter smiles at the sheer surprise in the other boy's voice.

"In Wakanda!" Peter yells into the phone. He settles onto the edge of a tall building, having just swung away from T'Challa's sprawling palace and the rest of the Avengers.

The feast had been T'Challa's idea. A dinner in celebration of the battle won— a dinner of remembrance, instead of mourning, spent in the company of friends both old and new.

The food was incredible, unlike anything Peter had ever tasted before.

He clung fast to Shuri, was drawn to her from the moment he first landed in Wakanda. And, when he went back home, they had texted frequently and furiously.

She had a tendency to disappear— the confines of her lab calling her at all times of the day. One moment Peter was sulking, in the midst of a friendly argument with her, the next he turned to look at Shuri and she was gone.

"No freaking way," Ned exclaimed breathlessly. "Is the Black Panther there? Dude. He totally is, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he totally is," Peter says, "There's a whole bunch of heroes here... Um... Cap has a beard now. And Black Widow is blonde. And there's a talking raccoon and a talking tree guy named Groot. It's _wild_. "

"That's so wild," Ned agrees, awestruck.

Peter can imagine his eyes widened in shock, he smiles to himself and shoots a web without aiming, watches as it falls. "Thor's here, too," he says a bit giddily, blushes a bright red at the sound of his voice when he says that, and clears his throat in embarrassment. "But Loki isn't. Not anymore." He shrugs.

Loki had pretty much saved the day by bringing that golden-robed emperor with him. A night had passed, Thor had told Peter when Peter worked up the nerve to ask, then Loki had left. Thor wouldn't say anything more, not even when pushed.

Falling to lie on his back, Peter stares up at the sky, blue and clear of any but the fluffiest of clouds. It was a cinematic sky, the kind to be found in an awe-inspiring coming-of-age movie based on an even more incredible book. He picks out shapes in the clouds as he tells Ned about Thanos, about the new Stark tower, about Wakanda and how he, Tony and the Guardians had jetted in the previous evening.

Maybe six days have passed since they faced Thanos. Kept indoors and cut off from most of the world, the days have stretched for weeks and weeks until Peter isn't really sure how long it has been.

He _could_ ask Quill, but he is lost in a haze of his own sadness and is as unreliable as Peter.

"Hey, do you think there's a law that says if you spend forty years in space and are raised by a weird alien dude then you're an alien?" Peter asks, pulling on the grey-blue string dangling from his dark grey hoodie.

Ned answers as Peter expected and hoped for; seriously, and opening a way for Peter to re-enter the conversation.

"Star Lord?" Ned queries, sounding sceptical of the name for a second. His breath hitches. "There's a dude named _Star Lord?_ That's so _awesome_."

 

Peter is an only child. He has no siblings and if he has any cousins he does not know about them, doubts that they even exist.

He spent his childhood drowning in textbooks and science and intricate virtual worlds, has spent his teenage years in much the same way. Occasionally, sat these countless hours in the company of a friend— most often in the company of Ned.

Those hours alone in the tower, Peter had felt the boredom and the loneliness pile upon him. But Quill had been there. He was not the most welcoming person, cold and stricken with grief and almost consistently drunk. Not the obvious choice for a friend.

"Go be friends with Groot. Or just worry someone else," was Quill's tired mantra for those first few days, every time he saw Peter. But Peter didn't understand Groot and he was slightly terrified of both Drax and Rocket. And he was _incredibly_ terrified of Mantis and Nebula.

" _And_ ," he reasoned one afternoon to Quill, finding him sitting in the shade of a large tree in the too green park not far from the tower, "We're both Peter's." Stating it like it was an irrefutable fact of science. "It's like a sign from the gods."

"Kid, there's probably about six-hundred thousand Peter's in this city alone. Probably about twenty in this park. If you're this desperate for a friend I'll just go out and find you one. Okay?" Quill pointed to a slender boy walking past, brown hair falling in his bespectacled eyes and dressed in a red checkered shirt and torn jeans. "Look, I'll show you. _He_ looks like a Peter." Peter shrunk into his seat, realizing what Quill was doing only when he heard the older man calling out their shared name.

The boy stopped in his tracks, hands tucked in his jeans pockets. "Hi," this other Peter greeted awkwardly, balancing on the heels of his ratty sneakers as he cast an appraising look over Peter and Quill. "Do I... know you...?"

"No, but it's for science and this child needs a frien—" Quill began, clasping his hand on Peter's shoulder and pushing him forward, only to be cut off by Peter punching him in the side and smiling apologetically at the Peter they had disturbed.

Quill wasn't the first or obvious choice of a friend, but when he wasn't drowning himself in bitter liquor, he was a really good one.

 

The Guardians would be leaving at noon the next day. The ship fixed and ready to go, none of them could see the advantages of staying on earth any longer. Except for Groot, who enjoyed the tech that Stark and Wakanda had at their disposal— Peter could relate to that, Quill insists it's just Groot being a difficult teenager and never wanting to do what others wanted him to do.

Two weeks by now, Peter guesses. Two weeks that he has been holed up in the tower. Except for that day spent in Wakanda and that time he sneaked out to find Quill in the park, Peter hasn't really left the building. He hasn't spoken to Aunt May yet, either. Though he was assured by Tony— working and distracted Tony, who looks like he hasn't slept since Thanos— that daily updates of Peter's wellbeing were being sent to May.

That, at least, had brought him some peace.

The door flies open before they have even made it all the way up the shaky flight of stairs.

"Peter," Aunt May calls, her voice singing of relief and worry and anger. Her arms are strong around Peter and Peter melts into the secure warmth of it all. He missed her so much, was so sure he wouldn't be returning home and that he would not see her again.

"Please don't kill me, Aunt May," Peter says, muffled by her shoulder. "Not when we have guests."

Taking a step away from him, Aunt May looks over his shoulder. Her eyes flicker from Peter to the bedraggled group of six standing behind him.

"Nice to meet you," Drax says, holding out his hand and breaking the creeping silence.

"It's nice to meet you, too," Aunt May says. Effortlessly, she gathers herself and smiles at everyone in turn before ushering them into the apartment.

Peter helps with introductions, pointing out each of the Guardians to his aunt. He notices Quill's small, strained smile, as if he is uncomfortable and would rather be anywhere else but here. As if he would rather be fist-fighting Thanos in a Chili's parking lot than standing in this kitchen.

Peter stands beside him, beams as he tells his aunt, "This is Peter. Peter Quill."

"I feel so lucky, having two Peter's in my home tonight." Her smile is a ray of sunlight and Peter can feel everyone in the room fall under her spell.

Quill nods, the movement barely noticeable. He is rigid as a statue, Peter isn't sure if he is even breathing.

Peter is not good at conversations. He has been an awkward mess for as long as he can remember. Voice quiet, he says to Quill to the first thing that comes to mind, "It's okay, Quill. Or it's going to be."

Groot pipes up from Quill's other side. "I am Groot," he says, and Peter is sure he is echoing what was just said.

Quill smiles. It does not quite meet his eyes, but it is a smile; a genuine smile.

*

The next day the Guardians prepare to leave. The Avengers and a few select agents of SHIELD stand on the towers roof and wave them off.

Quill ruffles Peter's hair before he steps onto the ship. "You know what, kid, you're not so bad. Gamora—" And it still hurts to say her name but he swallows past it and gives Peter a crooked smile. "Gamora would've liked you. You might even have been her favourite Peter."

He can't see Drax, but Quill thinks he might hear him crying softly to himself.

 


	3. Three — Thor

Death, he thinks, is one of the only constants in his life. That and the knowledge that, even if everything else fails, he will always have his brother. 

Loki has betrayed him and tricked him, has held a knife to his throat and threatened his life, has died and pretended to die more than twice. But these are things that Thor can count on— in some way, some form, Loki will be in his life.

"You look good, brother," Thor says.

A soft wind carries a rustle through the leaves and dances through Loki's hair, brushes the side of Thor's head. Maybe it's the fresh Wakandan air, unlike anything else Thor has encountered on Earth, that is the reason there is colour in Loki's cheeks. Colour that Thor  can't remember ever seeing before.

Thor moves to stand beside Loki, on the edge of a cliff overlooking a vast forest and a thriving city. "Alive," he adds with a grin.

"I'm going back." Loki crosses his arms over his chest. His lips lift at the corners, in a soft smile which Thor only catches because he isn't looking directly at him. "To Sakaar," he adds belatedly, the words curling softly and settling around both of them.

Sakaar and Loki. The two fit well together— if any place in the world can keep Loki out of trouble, it would be the eccentric chaos of Sakaar.

He turns to Loki and nods. "Because you want to... Or because you have to?"

"Both." Loki sighs but the smile doesn't leave his lips and the light doesn't leave his eyes. "The Grandmaster doesn't travel across the galaxy for nothing. Or just anyone."

"We could kill him," Thor says, serious before breaking into a smile that creases his eyes into small curved slits.

"No. No," Loki chuckles breathlessly, his eyes widen as if his answer has surprised even himself. "He's a lunatic, but..." He falters and, when he speaks next, his voice is a hush almost carried away by the wind, "He can give me a good life."

"I always knew you'd end up marrying for money. Or power. It seems now you'll get both." He claps Loki on the shoulder. "Good on you."

Loki grumbles and pushes Thor away. Absently, he rubs at the round of his shoulder and stretches out the gathered tension.

They fall into a silence that is comfortable and familiar.

Standing beside Loki, his brother, in this strange kingdom and without fear of death clinging to him, Thor almost feels complete. Almost feels like himself, without the tragedies of the last week.

"When you see Val," Loki says, he rests a hand on Thor's arm and eyes him critically, "Give her a hug."

"We both know that she'll punch me if I did that."

He didn't even know when next he would see Valkyrie, or any of the Asgardians she had managed to escape with. Just more than two hundred more Asgardians had come with Loki and the Grandmaster, finding sanctuary in Wakanda until Thor could find somewhere else to settle.

"Then I'm sorry I'll miss it." Loki raises his shoulders in a heavy shrugs. His laugh rings genuine, mischief plays in his eyes. "I leave tonight," he says, "Before the feast."

"Then this is goodbye." Not their  first goodbye, but it weighs heavily. It feels like it might be their last.

"I assure you, brother," Loki says, "The sun will shine on us again. We will find our way back to each other, we always do."

 

The Grandmaster stands just behind Loki. Thor pays him no attention.

"I hope you find your happiness," he says to Loki, quiet and meaningful. Without hesitation Thor reaches out and wraps Loki in a tight hug— the same one he promised him a lifetime ago, aboard the ship heading for Earth.

They have been through so much. It is hard to imagine their lives without drama and tragedy and loss.

Loki pats him on the back lightly. Hands on Thor's shoulders he moves to stand an arm's length away. "And I hope you find yours," he bows his head forward and says earnestly.

The Grandmaster clears his throat loudly. "Are we done?" he calls, hand hanging limply in midair. Sun shines on him, reflects sparkly light off the rich gold of his robes. "Really, it's much too hot here."

"He complains about everything," Loki grumbles, rolls his eyes.

"So you were made for each other!" Thor rejoices. He breaks out into a wide smile, feels the moment tug away at his sadness. Loki glares, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a soft smile of his own.

With one last hug, and a soft smile thrown over his shoulder as he walks away, Loki disappears into the waiting ship.

*

Thor cracks his neck roughly.  
With a cheer that resounds loudly through the hall and over the sounds of everybody gathered, he raises his beer.

"What do you think, Rabbit?" Thor asks, swallowing back a mouthful of the strong beer, "Another round?"

"Thought you'd never ask." Rocket chugs back of a beer of his own and bares his teeth in a sly grin. "Then, we test out that axe of yours."

"Thought you'd never ask." Stormbreaker leans against the leg of his chair. Mjolnir's loss ways heavily on him— wary as he is to still admit it— but the axe is powerful, and fits almost as comfortably in the palm of his hand.

"How'd you get that anyway?" Steve asks. Arms crossed over his chest and leaning into the long-haired man seated beside him— Bucky, Thor thinks his name is— Steve cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow.

The dark beard highlights the strength of his jaw, sandy hair grown long and falling into his eyes.  
Steve looks good, better than Thor can ever remember him looking.

He swallows back a mouthful of expertly made food, washes it down with more beer.

"I guess it started when my sister destroyed Mjolnir," Thor says, jovial. He acknowledges Steve's frown with a short nod.

His skin prickles as he tells Stormbreaker's story. As clearly as if he were still standing in the concentrated heat of that star, Thor can feel his skin burn.  
His body is bruised and broken, healing as it should be but still damaged from the many battles of the last few days.

"You did what?" Bruce asks, loud and incredulous. He cranes his neck to glare up at Thor, eyes wide and burning with worry and anger.

"It was a, uh, a small star." Thor waves him away gently, his smile unwavering. Beer clasped in his one hand, he rests his other on Banner's shoulder, bows his head and looks him in the eye and says, "Don't worry about it."

But Bruce gathers his brows in a rough line, and Thor knows he won't stop worrying about it. Even if he showed him his healing bruises and explained away the pain.  
Bruce is like that, always stressing over things he has no control over.

"Now, Tony," he exclaims, turning his attention toward Tony and dragging his friend away from a heated conversation with T'challa and Okoye. "Tell me, when did you acquire a son?"

*

Soon he is one of the last of the Avengers to remain in Wakanda. The only one, besides Steve and Bruce, to stay in the city after they have cleaned up the messes in the surrounding universe which bloomed in Thanos' wake.

Natasha leaves in the dead of night. She tells no one, is simply there when they go to bed and gone when they awaken.

Tony leaves next, that afternoon and in all the fuss that Thor has come to expect of him. A private jet of his own, and with Peter sulking and following close behind.

Wanda and Vision soon after. Years have passed since he last saw either of them, but he holds Wanda in a tight goodbye hug. "You've grown so much," Thor says and fondly pats Wanda on the crown of her head.

Wanda scrunches her nose and shrinks under his close scrutiny. "You've changed... too. The hair and the eye— Very punk rock."

All of them, one after another.

The Guardians, too— making erratic promises to reunite with Thor in the near future, and only leaving after he returned the promise.

His friends. His brother.  
It stings, seeing them all leave. Walking away and into whatever their futures hold for them.

*

Wakanda is brilliant, but it is not Asgard. It is not home.

He watches over his people as best as he possibly can. Hurt and grieving and shaken, the Asgardians are reluctant to rejoin a new world so soon after the destruction of their own.

Yet, hesitant as they are, they fit in well with the thriving Wakandan society.

Thor watches them sometimes. He smiles as they wander through the marketplaces, and visit shops and restaurants; as they return as close to normal as is humanly possible.

In a silence that is neither stilted nor comfortable, but somewhere just in the middle, T'challa sits near Thor.

A pair of kings. One kingdomless; one not.

"Your sister destroyed your kingdom?" T'challa asks, running a finger over the edge of a glass perched on a small side table. He crosses his right leg over the left and looks over at Thor.

Thor shakes his head. "No. I did. Well, Loki did, but I told him to do it." He taps his fingers against the chair's curving arm, frowns before he explains Ragnarok.

"You can stay as long as you need," T'challa assures him with a muted smile. "Your boyfriend, too."

"Boyfriend—?" Thor questions with a crease of his brow, then, a slow smile and a shake of his head. "Oh, Banner... No. I don't— We aren't... _dating._ I just got out of a very serious relationship, and there's this Valkyrie, who's terrifying but in a really great way. I'm not saying I wouldn't date Bruce. He's cute, I would definitely date him."

T'challa leans over and refills Thor's glass without a word. "You can drink that," he says, regarding the drink with a raised eyebrow. "It's strong enough to get an Asgardian drunk."

"You and I, T'challa," Thor begins, clinking their glasses together, "We will be friends for a long time."

*

"Hey, God of Thunder," Shuri calls over her shoulder. Hair gathered in a knot on top of her head and clear goggles on, she directs a slow grin at Thor.

"Oh, hey, Thor," Banner greets, half-heartedly waving from behind a useless-looking wall of beakers, filled with colourful liquids. "Where've you been?"

"King business. With T'challa. Very important," he answers with a shrug. He meets Shuri's distracted fist bump and says, "Your brother is a brilliant man."

" _Sure_ ," Shuri mutters.

Bruce squints at him from behind his thick glasses. "Are you drunk?"

"A bit." Thor holds up his thumb and index finger, less than a centimeter apart, in demonstration. "It will fade."

Her laugh is a sharp and disbelieving snort. "Okay," Shuri says and shrugs. "You're just in time," she adds, "Dr Banner and I have been messing around in the lab since yesterday."

Shuri slides her goggles onto the curve of her head. From among the scattered mechanics and discarded tools she lifts a small black disc from the table, holds it up to Thor in an almost reverent way.

Her excitement is unrestrained, lights a flame behind her dark eyes.

Inching from around the worktable, Bruce moves to stand behind Shuri. Quietly, his voice a hush in the lab, he says, "Thor. We think we've found a way to reach Val."

Thor sobers up, faster than is usual, even for an Asgardian.

"Tell me," he says, words escaping him. "Tell me how."

For the first time in ages the chance of his remaining people being reunited, of seeing Valkyrie alive and well, is within his grasp.

He tightens a hand around the edge of the table, nods sharply at Shuri and Bruce, urging them to continue.

"The ships have trackers of them, Loki told me before he left," Bruce says, using a knuckle to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Of course, being Loki, he couldn't make it easy for me and give me _tracking codes_ or a _number_ or _something_."

"You have seven PhDs, he doesn't have to make it easy."

"That's... not the point."

"So," Shuri jumps in with a wave of her hand, "We used the ships last approximate position when attacked by the _Black Order_." She flickers her hands over a wide holographic screen, swipes left. "We were able to zero in— You can take a look at it if you like."

He stands behind Shuri, looms over her small frame. "That's all of them," Thor whispers, voice barely audible even to himself. Just over one hundred Asgardians board an escaping pod, large enough to house far more than that— but they were all that could make it without Thanos noticing, all that could make it out with Valkyrie.

"Shuri is incredible," Bruce gushed, offering praise freely and without hesitation. "She managed to get into the ship's radio thing. Thor, we told Val how to get here."

Thor nods slowly. His grin is wide and breaks his face in two.

*

Warm wind brushes against the side of his head, dances through the short hair he is not used to having.

Absent-minded and anxious, Thor swings Stormbreaker.

He waits, standing in front of T'challa's palace. Bruce on his right, babbling and bouncing on the balls of his feet, Shuri and T'challa on his left. The Dora Milaje, weapons raised, line the walkway.  
Steve and Bucky linger just behind the larger group— invited by Thor, yet, facing the impending arrival of the rest of his people, are now completely ignored.

The dome vibrates, ripples out as if the ship slipping through were no more than a pebble being thrown into a smoothened pond.

The ship lands shakily. Thor smiles to himself— Valkyrie is flying, he can tell.

The wide door lowers slowly to the ground, a soft whirring sound marking its decent.

Valkyrie takes a step down the ramp. "Miss me, Lord of Thunder?" she asks, her lips quirked into a lazy half-smile.

Thor takes a step forward to meet her, to meet the rest of the surviving Asgardians.

"You missed one hell of a fight," he says.

He takes a step forward and stops, staggers.

"I think we've had enough fighting to last us a lifetime." Heimdall takes a step out of the ship's darkness. Injured, he settles his weight on a thick wooden staff, yet his bright smile is the familiar one that Thor knows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) There might only be about two/three chapters left. A Steve and Bucky chapter will be coming up next, then a T'challa chapter, and will possibly be followed by a Natasha and Clint chapter.  
> I so badly want to write about Sam and Tony but I don't really know what their chapters would be about...  
> If you have any ideas, or if there's any other specific a:iw character you would like to see written about, feel free to let me know :)
> 
> 2) I've really had so much fun writing this fic, but I've especially had fun writing Loki and Grandmaster. That being said, I am thinking about doing a spinoff of this story and doing a short Frostmaster fic about what happens after they leave for Sakaar.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on Tumblr at [aycebasketcase](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aycebasketcase)


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